How Do You Like Me Now?

by Holly Bourne

  I am thrilled to introduce you to my pouch. My thirties pouch. I’m calling him Herman, and he’s very pleased to meet you.

  At first I wasn’t sure if I was a fan of Herman. Herman is a sign that my body is slowing down and chilling out and isn’t in its twenties any more. Society may not approve of Herman, fashion may not make Herman-friendly clothing, but I love him. Because Herman tells me my twenties are over! Herman is a sign I’ve made it through to the other side.

  The fact of the matter is that I’m older than a lot of you now. So many of you are still coming to my book for the first time and I love that the book still resonates with people. But I am no longer in my twenties, and I’ve got Herman to prove it. Let us be your spirit guides – me and Herman. Or send me photos of your own Hermans. Let’s celebrate a life where we grow Hermans.

  I can tell it’s going to be a huge post within ten minutes. The flurry of likes, and heart emojis, and comments telling me what an inspiration I am, come in hard like a blizzard. Herman photos are being sent to me left right and centre. Someone has given their Herman eyebrows. I laugh and send out a request for a Herman with googly eyes. Within half an hour, there are thirty googly-eyed Hermans on my feed. I feel happiness fill me up from the bottom of my toes and up to my scalp. I feel giddy and good about myself and like I am an inspiration after all. Even though I didn’t tell anyone that I took over fifty photos of me and Herman and picked the one where I looked prettiest. Even though I put on make-up just to take the photo. Even though I’ve already Googled exercises I can do to minimise Herman. Even though, when photos of Herman come in thick and fast, I feel good about myself when other women’s Hermans are flabbier than mine. Even though, at my TED talk in Berlin last month, I wore control pants to try and minimise Herman. Even though, last week, when Tom grabbed Herman and said, ‘this is new’, I cried for an hour on the bathroom floor after he fell asleep.

  Even though.

  ‘Oh my God, we love Herman,’ my editor, Marni, says as she walks towards me and opens her arms for an air kiss. I am never sure whether to go for one kiss, or two kisses, or a hug, or a handshake, so I let her guide me into two kisses and accidentally get some of her hair in my mouth. ‘We’ve put Herman on the wall of our office,’ she informs me.

  I pat my stomach dramatically. ‘Thank you from both of us.’

  She roars with laughter before kissing my agent on each cheek. ‘Can you come in every week, Tori? We need you.’

  My publisher’s office is made entirely of glass but it’s still freezing cold despite the sun streaming through the windows. Air-con rolls out of invisible vents, making me wish I’d brought a jacket. ‘Everyone’s on the top floor.’ Marni takes us through the imposing waiting room to the lifts and presses a card against the bleeper thing. I have never once figured out how these lifts work. There are six of them, and they have no buttons. Somehow the system knows through telepathy which floor you want to get to, and then assigns you your own lift. Marni and Kate, my agent, chat about a recent summer publishing party as we whoosh up to the top floor and emerge with a floor-to-ceiling view of the London skyline. I’m trying not to feel nervous. I shouldn’t be nervous. My publishers love me. I’ve made so much money for them that sometimes I feel like I’ve grown udders. But, behind their welcoming air-kisses and gushing emails, there is an edge.

  An edge that smells like: Where’s your next book?

  They’ve ordered in platters of fresh fruit and sandwiches cut into triangles. The entire room gets up as I enter and it takes five minutes for us all to kiss each other twice on each cheek. It takes a further five minutes to work out who wants what coffee and how. Everyone smiles at me. Some of the younger ones – in their thick-rimmed specs and dresses worn with Converse – are blushing and giddy. Maybe they’ve whispered about me coming into the office today. ‘I love your book,’ one of them says, instead of hello. ‘I really really loved it.’

  I smile and say ‘thank you’, and then I don’t know what else to say.

  We all sit around the table and the view really is something. I have seen so many good views since this crazy life of mine took off, but nothing beats the Thames in high summer.

  ‘So,’ Marni starts off. ‘We’re so excited to say that we’ve fixed your next book into our prime October spot. This gives us just under eighteen months.’

  My agent nods. Kate likes the word ‘October’. It means your publisher is going to spend money on you to get you into the pre-Christmas promotions. I smile. ‘That’s great. Wow. It seems so far away.’

  ‘It will come up quickly, believe me,’ Marni replies. I’m not sure if she means it to, but it sounds like a warning.

  We go through the sales figures of the summer edition and I can tell by how much they’re smiling that it isn’t selling as well as they wanted it to.

  ‘It’s a tricky market … pre-orders from bookshops were high … the good thing though is that it’s perennial … we can re-jacket it for paperback next year …’ When they’ve run out of steam, they all turn to me with their hands clasped, grins still etched onto their faces.

  ‘So, Kate has been saying you’ve had a bit of a brain storm?’ Marni prompts. ‘We’re dying to know what your idea is.’

  I look over at Kate who nods at me and smiles encouragingly. Even though Kate doesn’t like the idea and said she doesn’t think they’ll go for it. But it’s all I have. Somehow, in five whole years, I’ve not had one decent idea for anything positive and inspirational to write about.

  I imagine I am on stage. That I’m giving one of my talks. I am a together businesswoman who knows and understands her brand and her worth and what people want. ‘Well, I was thinking,’ I start, ‘I get so many letters and emails, every day, from people who have read Who The Fuck Am I? It’s really changed their lives, you know?’

  They nod. They know. Of course they know. They’re the ones who forward me all the gushing letters on special stationery.

  ‘So,’ I say, ‘I was thinking, for the follow-up book, we could collect some of the best stories? Make them into an anthology or something? I was thinking we could call it This Is Who The Fuck I Am. I mean, the book’s all about empowerment, right? What’s more empowering than celebrating my readers and the amazing choices they’ve made?’ I am proud of that last sentence. I practised it in front of Tom last night, who said, ‘Yeah, it’s great. You’ll do great’, while also looking at his phone.

  I stumble into silence and fixed grins and hands clasped tightly on top of the table.

  ‘That’s a great idea,’ Marni enthuses. ‘I love it.’

  I wait for the ‘but’. I know The But is coming. They’re all looking at each other frantically while trying not to move their smiles or eyebrows.

  ‘The thing is,’ she continues, ‘those books do work. They totally work. But, umm, normally we let a bit more time pass before we release them. Usually as a ten-year anniversary edition or something? It makes for great PR.’

  ‘Oh yes, great PR.’ The table nods and agrees and not one of them lets their smile drop.

  ‘But, as Who The Fuck Am I? is only five years old, releasing something like this now may feel a little … premature? It’s a great idea though!’

  I bite my lip. I don’t know what to say. Because this is the only idea I have. I knew it was nothing but it was all I had. I look at Kate who smiles again. We’re all smiling, all of us, the whole room up here on the top floor, even though we’re all secretly thinking fuuuuuuuuuuck.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I laugh. A fake laugh. ‘I’m just going to have to think of a new book idea then, aren’t I?’

  ‘Well that’s why we’re all here,’ Marni soothes. ‘To help. We know how overwhelming it can be.’ She pushes the biscuit tray over to me. I don’t want a biscuit because I am worried about Herman, but I take one anyway. I hate myself for eating it the moment I’ve finished it.

  One of the younger editorial assistants pipes up, looking around nervously like she’s asking for permission to s
peak. ‘Umm, what motivated you to write your first book?’ she asks me directly. ‘Maybe we could work from there?’

  ‘I was miserable,’ I reply, staring straight at her.

  ‘Oh, right.’ She shuffles uncomfortably in her seat and the mood of the room shifts. I forget that people don’t like it when you tell the truth in person. They like the truth on TV, or written down so they can read and digest it in their own time. But when you’re truthful in person everyone acts like you’re farting on a crowded bus while eating an egg sandwich.

  ‘So I guess I just need to make myself really miserable again?’ I do another fake laugh, to try and diffuse the belch of honesty. Everyone titters politely. I worry now about what the editorial assistant will tell her friends about me. (‘Never meet your idols. She was such a bitch. She wasn’t how I expected her to be.’) I regain her eye contact as quickly as I can and say, ‘Sorry. It’s just, I really was miserable. I didn’t even think it was going to be a book, I just started writing.’

  I’m miserable now, I realise. And yet I’m not writing …

  She blushes. ‘No, I’m sorry!’ she gushes. ‘And I should’ve known. I mean, I’ve read your book so many times and you’re very upfront about your misery in that brilliant opening chapter.’

  We are now both grinning madly at each other, both insecure, thinking the other one doesn’t like us, even though maybe we don’t like them. That opening chapter. Everyone always goes on about that opening chapter. When I was standing on Waterloo Bridge, broke and heartbroken (again), with my hair falling out from the stress of my internship and worried I’d got gonorrhoea after a one-night stand messaged me to say I needed to get tested. Pretty awful. Pretty miserable. Pretty traumatic. Everyone thinks they know all of it, but they don’t. There is so much I didn’t share. How I only weighed seven stone at the time. Or that, later that night, I drank too much vodka and pathetically took six whole ibuprofen before freaking out and ringing Dee asking if I needed my stomach pumped.

  Marni leans forward, sensing the brainstorm waning. ‘The thing is, Tori, your USP has always been how honest you are. So, maybe we just need to think of something you can be honest about?’

  There is a collective nod. A pre-organised one. They have already discussed this before I arrived. I sit back and wait for them to tell me their idea. I already hate it, because I didn’t think of it myself.

  ‘We loved your Herman post, and I think one of the reasons it’s done so well is that it was the first time you acknowledged you are getting older …’ She trails off, waiting to see what my face does. I arrange it into Switzerland. ‘The thing is, you’re bringing in new readers every year, but a lot of your established readership is growing up with you. You were so good at putting into words what it’s like to muddle through your twenties …’ They’re all nodding – they’re all looking so very earnest indeed. ‘… so we were thinking you might want to write something about entering your thirties?’

  I look out of the window and see London glowing, and showing itself off in the bright sunlight. The glittering Thames looks so beautiful you forget it’s a toxic spill of sludge and chemicals. I suddenly don’t want to be in this room any more. I want to be outside, my body sticky from the heat. A breeze from the river lifting my hair.

  I have nothing to say …

  But I have to say something.

  ‘Entering my thirties?’ I repeat her words as they’re the only words I can manage.

  Marni is thrilled at my response. ‘Yes!’ she enthuses, like I’ve just punched my fist into the air, or clicked my heels in a jig. ‘I mean, as a thirty-four-year-old woman myself, I would love to know what Tori has to say about it all.’

  The intern leans over too. ‘And you know your readers are just obsessed with you and Tom. It would be great to give them a sequel. I mean, what happened between you and the Man on the Rock?’

  Kate turns to check I’m OK. I can see from the blaze of her eyes that she thinks this is a good idea. But she won’t admit as much until I’ve given her a signal.

  ‘I mean,’ I say. ‘The Man on the Rock clipped his toenails on our bed last night and got little bits of them all over our John Lewis duvet cover.’

  Oh, how they laugh. I can see the fillings at the back of their mouths. I can see their tonsils glow as the sun lights them up through these expensive windows.

  ‘You see!’ Marni says. ‘This is what we love about you, Tori. I want to know all about Tori and long-term relationships.’

  I haven’t said yes and I haven’t said I’ll do it and I haven’t told them I feel dead inside. They don’t notice. The table becomes a giddy self-help group of women complaining about all the gross things their boyfriends do. Some of them leave their towels on the floor, some of them fart under the duvet, some of them don’t know how to wash up properly. God, aren’t they awful creatures? Why do we put up with it? And then the whole conversation morphs into how I can release a book every five to ten years, discussing that particular part of adult life and how basically shit it is. We will have early thirties Tori and late thirties Tori and forties Tori and Tori through the menopause and Tori taking her Rock Boy to the fucking hospice and signing over his power of attorney. Kate cannot believe such a brilliant thing has happened. I can practically see the pound signs in her irises as she asks me what I think. This is unfathomable. I’ve basically just been offered a lifetime’s supply of publishing deals. I’m Charlie fucking Bucket and I’m allowed entry to the factory for the rest of my life, just as long as I pretend I vaguely know what the hell I’m doing.

  What the hell am I doing?

  I didn’t say yes. That’s the important thing. That’s the thing I hold on to as I emerge from the sleek building made of glass, blinking into the sunlight and turning down my agent’s offer to celebrate with champagne. I didn’t say yes. I have not signed a contract. I only nodded when they asked for the first three chapters and did not once mention a delivery date.

  I stagger around Hay’s Galleria, then find myself sitting outside City Hall, trying to regulate my breathing. I stare out at Tower Bridge and watch everyone pass by. Businessmen soaking sweat into their suits on their way to meetings; tourists posing in front of the bridge with selfie sticks; vendors selling ice creams and expensive bottles of water; joggers looking pissed off that their run alongside a major tourist destination is so crowded. Several couples with entwined hands kiss one another’s cheeks while pretending their arm isn’t outstretched with their phone at the end of it, taking a photo.

  Are you happy? I wonder about each and every single one of them. Are you happy?

  My phone vibrates in my hand and tells me it is Tom.

  Tom: Hey, how did the big meeting go?

  I don’t know how to reply. If I tell him I’m not happy, he will ask why. And then, when I explain, he won’t understand why I’m sad. So he will do that thing where he pretends he is being sympathetic, but I can sense that, underneath, he thinks I’m being a giant brat. Therefore I’ll get mad at him. That anger will then seep into something that happens the following week, when I’ve realised I can’t bury it any longer. We will have a spat about something insignificant, like what time-slot to get the groceries delivered, and I’ll end up yelling ‘I’M MAD AT YOU FOR NOT BEING SUPPORTIVE ABOUT MY MEETING.’ And first he’ll ask, ‘what meeting?’ because so much time has passed. And then, when I explain, he will think I’m crazy for bringing up something that happened over a week ago. And then he’ll be angry at me because he was supportive. And then I’ll have to try to explain how I know he thought he was being supportive but actually I could tell he didn’t mean it, and that’s actually worse. Then he’ll accuse me of putting him in situations where he can never win. Then he’ll make that face – the one where I know I’ve pushed things too far and need to be careful – and I’ll say sorry because I can’t handle the pure hatred in his eyes. And Tom won’t apologise back because he won’t think he’s done anything wrong. He’ll punish me for ever having said any
thing in the first place. The punishment will include not touching me, or hugging me, or kissing me, but also insisting he is ‘not angry’ and ‘nothing is wrong’ for about two weeks until, finally, I have to apologise for being such a terrible person.

  So I write:

  Tori: It went really well. They want me to write a book a decade essentially until I die! x

  Tom: WOW! OMG Gorgeous. That’s amazing. I’m so proud of you. X

  I take another deep breath and look out at the city skyline. If I can lose myself in this day and how pretty it is, then that is happiness. A fleeting moment. We may all die tomorrow anyway. Most people spend their whole lives dreaming of coming to London. Most people dream of getting books published. Most people dream of having partners at the end of the phone, asking them how important meetings go.

  I find sentences pushing their way into my brain – demanding to be listened to. Words arranging themselves into order; feelings tapping me on the shoulder and begging to be understood. My mind is cluttered and busy and I know it won’t relax until I let them out. I take a deep breath, rummage in my handbag for the decorative notepad I took to the meeting, and I write:

  You can do just as much damage by not saying anything as you can by saying something.

  I look down at the words, reading them back under my breath. I feel … cleaner than I did before. Like I’ve just punched an air hole in my own life.

  Then I message Dee.

  Tori: Had a … weird meeting with my publishers. Can we meet tonight and get drunk? It feels like it’s been months.

  She’s at school so doesn’t reply until gone four. I’m back at my flat when my phone buzzes. I spent the afternoon lying on my stomach and going through every single tagged photo of myself to try to work out what my life looks like from the outside. I pretend in my head that I’ve only just added myself as a friend, and try to see what my initial impressions are – of how good my life looks, and how pretty I am, objectively.

  Dee: Aww, sorry you had a shit day. It would be nice to have a proper catch-up. Nigel is out at some summer work thing. Dinner?